A Place To Be Safe
by QueenRiley
Summary: Five lonely, broken people have five lonely, broken beginnings. Author's Note: Thor is not included because, according to the movies, he had a relatively happy and trauma-free childhood.


Clint ran through the fields, the tall brown grasses slapping at his arms and hands. Barney was just ahead of him, always ahead, and Clint couldn't catch up. Would never catch up. Barney was bigger. Faster. Stronger. He was braver. He was everything Clint was not.

He pushed harder, worked his little legs faster as his muscles screamed in protest. He was out of breath, out of energy, but he couldn't stop. He was so close. Just a little bit more. He could make it. He couldn't give up. His blond hair fell in his eyes, stuck to his forehead with sweat, but he couldn't stop long enough to brush it back.

It was hot. The Iowa sun was setting in front of them, blinding and streaking the sky with swollen veins of oranges and reds. It was swallowing the horizon whole. If he could just reach that horizon, the sun could swallow him too.

The tree, their tree, was just ahead. His lungs burned with the effort, with the fire from the sun, but he didn't stop. He had to reach the tree. Climb high, oh so high, as high as he could go. As high as it would support. He could see better, up there. He was safest up high.

He panted and pushed and cried out as Barney reached the tree ahead of him. Barney swung up through the lower branches without even stopping and Clint's hand smacked hard into the bark of the tree, finally finding home.

He jumped and stretched, reached as high as he could. Rough hands grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him to the ground just as he got his little fingers around the lowest branch. He hadn't been fast enough, just like always. And he'd pay for it, just like always. He rolled into a ball, covered his face as best he could, and tried not to scream as the fists connected with his ears, with his head, with his already bleeding back.

His arm was pulled back painfully when the body beating him toppled over to the ground as Barney jumped down from the tree. His ears rang, from the confusion, the screams, or the punches he wasn't sure.

"Climb, Clint! Get as high as you can!" Barney told him, attempting to stand up himself and get as far away as possible. Clint sat, stunned, as blood flowed down his face. He watched his father get up and go after Barney instead. He tried to get between them, but Barney pushed him back and towards the tree. Clint's head hit bark and the ringing started over as the world swayed in front of him.

"Go!" Barney screamed. Clint wanted to stay and help, to be a unified front of resistance, but he was no match for their father. Never had been. He scrambled up the tree, pulling up on each branch as fast as he could. He cowered near the trunk on the highest branch that would hold his weight, knowing his father would never follow, not in a million years, and covered his ears as his brother fought back below.

Clint never fought back. Barney always did. Maybe that's why Clint took the brunt of the physical pain while Barney got the emotional beatings. Barney could hurt their father. Clint was too small.

His lip was bloody. He had a black eye. His right ear felt hot and wet and swollen. His back felt like he'd laid on a hornet's nest where the belt had lashed at him in the house. But he didn't cry. Not until Barney climbed up in the tree next to him, just as bloody and broken as he was. He cried for his brother, who jumped out of a tree to save him from their father's drunken rage and took it on himself instead.

Barney was full of their father's anger and hate. Barney was fiery passion, all explosive reactions and emotions. Barney was bigger. Faster. Stronger. Reckless and daring. Braver. Barney was everything Clint was not.

They sat in silence, side by side, high enough to be safe, until dawn.

* * *

The fire licked the walls. The heat was intense. She couldn't see through the smoke, but she was able to get to a window. Her survival instinct kicked in and she threw it open.

Natasha could hear the screams from the apartments around her. Terror, fear, pain. The fire was devouring the building and she didn't know what to do. She couldn't find her parents in the dark and smoke. It was hard to breathe, hard to see, hard to hear. Her throat burned and she couldn't scream. The window seemed endlessly high above her. She couldn't muster the energy to even jump.

She was crying when strong hands grasped her around the waist and pulled her out through the window. Her tears stopped abruptly at the shock of cold air. It was freezing, but it was clean and fresh and she choked down gasping breaths, lungs burning with the fire she was leaving behind. She clutched at the warm body of the man as he ran with her.

"It's okay, darling. You are safe now," he said in her ear. His voice was familiar. His smell tickled at her memory. She had seen this man before. At the grocery? Perhaps her father's work or on the street corner. Maybe he was the gardener. She couldn't remember. She turned to look at her home and found it crumbling, disintegrating, as the fire consumed it. She began to cry again. Her parents were still in there.

"Shh, shh. I will take you somewhere safe, little one. Trust me. I will take care of you." He placed her gently on the ground and she took his hand. He led her away from the burning building, away from the life she had known, as the snow swirled around them.

She shook herself out of her stupor, startling and coming back to reality. She had been dreaming, but not asleep. She was huddled in a corner of an unfamiliar bedroom. Her clothes were torn. Her face was wet.

She took in her surroundings. She wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting there. The room was growing dark with the setting sun. Shadows danced across the walls. There was a sharp metallic tang in the air. She could almost taste it. She remembered where she was. What she had just done. What had just been done to her.

Natasha shoved a small fist in her mouth, partly to stifle the scream that threatened to tear out of her and partly to suppress the bile that rose in her throat. It wouldn't do to vomit on her first mission. They'd taught her better than that.

She rose, slowly, and inched her way along the wall. She had to reach the window, had to get out before somebody found her. Found them.

She skirted around the blood that dripped off the bed and puddled on the floor. She wouldn't look at the body. She tried not to look at the red on her nightgown, on her hands, on the knife she still clutched tightly. It had slid through like butter. Her first job and she'd done it well. Just as she'd been taught.

She had trusted a man once. She was paying for it now, dearly. She mourned for what she had just lost, what innocence had burned with the fire of her memory. She vowed never to trust again.

Natalia Romanova was ten years old. And there was red in her ledger.

* * *

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned forward. He had left droplets of blood on the sidewalk behind him. His backpack was torn and most of his papers had been recovered, although he'd have to do his math again and his literature essay had bootprints on it. He'd made it within a block of home before he allowed himself to stop and catch his breath, try to stop the bleeding. His chest hurt. His aunt was going to have a fit over the blood on his shirt but there wasn't anything he could do about it now.

His nose finally stopped dripping, although it still throbbed. He sucked in a deep breath, ignoring the stitch in his side, and rounded the corner to take the last stretch at a sedate walk. He needed to at least have the air of normalcy, for his own sanity if nothing else.

They were there. They were waiting. He turned to run the other way, but they were behind him, too. He was trapped.

The biggest one kneed him in the stomach and he fell. His head hit the cement and the world swam around him. Rage surged through him, anger boiling over and taking control. He wanted to hurt these boys. He wanted nothing more than to tear them limb from limb and dance in the carnage. He was smaller than them, weaker, but his vision went red and he knew he could do it. He could destroy them. And it wouldn't even be difficult.

His fists clenched and he shook with the effort of controlling it. It was useless. He was going to lash out and somebody was going to get hurt. He closed his eyes and tried to suppress it, tried to let it pass, but they were kicking him and yelling something and the blood pumped in his ears.

He saw one thing, and one thing only, behind the black of his eyes. His mother, on the floor, blood seeping through her hair, bruises already spreading on her delicate skin. Her eyes begged him to stay under the bed, to stay hidden, and he watched as his father threw her around the room in his rage. His rage. It had killed her, and Bruce had watched it all. His father had killed the only person in the world Bruce loved more than anything. Because he couldn't control his anger.

The same anger that coursed through his veins right now. Bruce hated his father.

He rolled to his knees, shoved them away, and stood as he took deep breaths. He took a moment, his eyes shut tight, to fold the fire inside of him and send it away through the sheer force of his will. He wouldn't hurt anybody, no more than he had to.

He would control the anger. He wouldn't let it control him. He shut it up in a box and threw away the key. He opened his eyes and the fire that burned there must have given the bullies pause. They stopped, stepped back, and let him pass. He threw his bag over his shoulder and limped the rest of the way home. He was furious and shaking, but he held it in. Didn't retaliate. Wouldn't fight back.

Bruce would never be his father.

* * *

Tony soldered into place what he hoped would be the last piece. He wasn't technically supposed to be using the soldering iron, but he needed it or his board wouldn't work. He also wasn't supposed to be in his father's workshop, but he was there anyway. It was the only place to pick up the spare parts, to build something. To get done what he needed to do. And he needed to build things. Needed it like he needed air, water, food.

Tony watched the lights blink and the clock come on. It had worked! It had actually worked. He ran to tell his mother. He'd actually done it. Tony had built a circuit board. He'd done it all on his own, figuring out what he needed and where to put things, how to power it, how to get it to stay. He'd done it himself. His father would surely be proud of him now.

His mother was certainly impressed. She asked him how it worked and he explained it. She seemed to understand. She didn't even punish him for using his father's tools or being in the workshop when he was supposed to be playing in the nursery or out in the gardens.

"Can I show him tomorrow?" Tony asked at bedtime, his little board powering a clock that blinked happily on his bedside table. He hadn't wanted to leave it the whole afternoon.

"Of course. He'd love to see it." She sounded sad, though, and Tony knew what that meant. It wouldn't matter what he'd done. She was worried his father wouldn't care. His mother attempted to be happy and optimistic but he could see right through her lies. He rolled away and faced the wall, closing his eyes and ignoring her.

The next morning, his father was at breakfast, but when Tony tried to explain how he'd built a circuit board, his father just shushed him and told him to finish his cereal. He never listened, so Tony would show him instead. He rushed upstairs to grab it, but by the time he got back downstairs, his father had left.

"Didn't he want to see?" he asked.

"I'm sure he did, baby. He's just very busy at the office," his mother placated, smoothing down his disheveled hair. She was lying. He always knew when she was lying.

She got the press involved, talking about the bright future of Stark Industries thanks to the genius of the next generation. They interviewed him and took his picture, wrote up a whole article they promised would be in the morning paper. Tony knew surely his father would be proud of him then. It took something pretty big and important to make the newspaper.

Tony waited anxiously for his father to appear at breakfast and read the article. Except his father didn't show for breakfast. He didn't come home for lunch. And it was after bedtime before he came stumbling in, slurring his words and smelling heavily of alcohol. Tony hated when he was like that.

Tony heard him crash into his desk in the library and he snuck out of bed to go see him. His mother was already in there and he peered through the crack of the door. If she knew he was out of bed, his head would roll. But he had to see what was going on. His dad had to have seen the article that morning. Surely he knew about all Tony had done by now.

"What were you thinking, woman? Calling the press? He's a kid." He shoved the newspaper. Tony watched his mother bend down to pick it up.

"I thought he could use a little recognition. Did you see what he did, Howard? Did you even look at it?"

"It's a circuit board. It does what… blink lights at him? Tell the time? Powers a radio? So what?" Tony's heart broke as all his hopes were shattered into a million pieces. His father didn't care. His father would never care.

"So that's quite an accomplishment for a four year old." At least his mother was on his side.

"It's not like he parachuted behind enemy lines and single handedly rescued an entire battalion of soldiers. Captain America, now there was a guy worthy of a newspaper article." His father knocked back another glass of that brown drink he liked so much. Tony could see his mother shake. From anger or frustration or both, he wasn't sure. It was taking all he had to hold back the tears.

"He's your son, Howard. And he's a genius. He could rule this world one day. He will rule this business. And where will you be? Pining over your lost superhero? He's growing up and you're missing it." She flung the paper back in his face and Tony scrambled away from the door, rushing back to his bedroom. Anger surged through him.

He'd only built it to impress his father. He'd only gone to all that risk, all that trouble, because he thought it might get his dad to spend more time with him, to teach him how to build things. He thought if he showed his dad he was ready, his dad could teach him everything he knew. Tony was beginning to realize his father didn't know anything at all.

His circuit board blinked happily at him. He picked it up and slammed it against the wall as hard as he could. He did it again. And again. Pieces of wire and chips rained down around him. He cut his hand and the blood welled, but he barely noticed the pain through his frustration.

"Anthony Stark! What are you doing?" his mother cried from his doorway. He hurled the remains of the board at her.

"I hate him!" he screamed. His voice cracked and the dam broke open. Tears spilled down his face and his mother rushed to his side. She hugged him tight.

"You heard, huh? He doesn't mean it, Tony. When he drinks… well. He's not himself. He is proud of you." Tony let his mother comfort him, but his body went rigid with dawning realization. He let her tuck him into bed, pull the covers up and pet his head. She even cleaned up his mess. He didn't say a word. He knew better, now.

She had lied again.

* * *

Steve liked staying with Mrs. Danziger. She made the best food and sometimes she even let him help cook. Plus she had three little girls near his age to play with. Girls were kind of boring, but they were nice and he didn't mind them so much so long as they didn't make him play house. It was better than staying with old Mrs. Brown. She didn't have any kids, just a whole bunch of cats. And she smelled funny. But Mrs. Danziger was nice and she always smelled like bread.

Steve usually only went over in the afternoons while his mother was at work, but he'd been spending a lot more time there lately since his mother had gotten sick. He'd never seen her so sick. So he was at Mrs. Danziger's all day to let his mother rest so she could get better. It'd be easier next year. He'd be old enough to start school and she wouldn't need to get anybody to watch him.

He finished another picture and added it to the stack. He was running out of paper and his crayons were tiny nubs, but he knew better than to ask for more. They couldn't afford it, especially with his mother not working for so long. He'd keep going until he was out of crayons and then he'd move on to using the ash and coals from the stove. He could always find leftover newspapers from the previous day to draw on.

He was going to decorate his mother's whole bedroom with pictures. She loved his drawings, encouraged him to make more, and it just might make her feel better to be surrounded by his artwork. He would do anything for his mother.

"Steve? Time to go home." Mrs. Danziger called from the kitchen. Steve picked up his supplies and his pictures. Mrs. Danziger took him by the hand and walked him down the hall, softly singing something in a language he didn't understand. It sounded happy and sweet, though, so he smiled and swung their arms in time to the tune. She chuckled mid-verse.

She let him in and he immediately rushed back to his mother's bedroom.

"Mama! I drew pictures for you, Mama! To make you happy!" He threw open the door and stopped in his tracks. The air was still and there was a sour smell to it. "Mama?" he asked quietly. She didn't move. Her eyes were open and blank, staring at the ceiling, and he couldn't hear her raspy breath anymore. She had been coughing that morning when he went to Mrs. Danziger's. She wasn't coughing now.

Steve shuddered, his pictures falling to the floor around him, and he screamed.

The church sponsored his mother's funeral three days later. The priest spoke but Steve didn't hear it, didn't hear anything but the beating of his own heart and the rush of the wind past his ears. His father had died a hero before he'd ever gotten the chance to meet him. And now his mother had died too, a hero in nobody's eyes but his own. He was all alone. He stood by the grave in the only clothes he owned, a single picture clutched in his hand.

As the grave diggers threw dirt on top of the wooden box his mother now rested in, Steve let go of the picture. A crayon drawing fluttered to rest on top; a woman with long yellow hair and a pretty blue dress holding the hand of a little boy with her same yellow hair. Dirt covered it quickly.

Steve didn't cry.


End file.
